


Glossa Games

by vienn_peridot



Series: Citrus Basket [4]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Bodily Fluids, Face-Sitting, Licking, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Other, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Underwear Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 16:25:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3140987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienn_peridot/pseuds/vienn_peridot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift and Ratchet indulging some kinks.<br/>Smut, smut and -OH WAIT more smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glossa Games

**Author's Note:**

> Pardon the choppyness. The year has been pretty shit so far and I'm tired.  
> Sit down and read your smut.

Ratchet held Drift’s hips carefully, unwilling to have his permission to touch revoked. Their EM Fields were tangled together in a blaze of pure lust broken by the occasional bright spike of pleasure. The speedster’s thighs writhed under Ratchet’s forearms and he moved with them as best he could, trying to avoid any scrapes that would distract Drift from what Ratchet was doing.

What Ratchet was doing was attempting to bring Drift to overload using only his glossa.

This was a task Ratchet had plenty of experience with, but it was currently complicated by the way Drift was writhing. Ratchet wasn’t allowed to control Drift’s movements in any way. He had to follow the erratic movements of the swordsmech’s valve by turning his helm. Fighting the urge to grab Drift’s aft and hold him in place, Ratchet gently stroked his fingers along the smooth curve of red-and-white thigh armour to keep himself from forgetting and earning a punishment. He kept careful track of Drift’s EM Field so he didn’t accidentally overstep his boundaries.

When this game began Drift had ordered Ratchet onto his back on the berth and outlined his plan, slowly donning one of his favourite items of interfacing-wear. The slow, sensual movements and Drift’s obvious enjoyment of the rich material had Ratchet’s cooling system engaged and his Field filled with helpless desire long before Drift got anywhere near him.

By now the original colour of the fabric -a sheer blue which matched Drift’s optics- had changed to a deep purplish colour as it absorbed the combination of Ratchet’s oral solvents and the lubricant that Drift’s valve was producing in large quantities. Ratchet ached to slide something other than his glossa into the slit over the valve entrance. Spike or finger, it didn’t matter. All he wanted was to feel Drift surround him, embrace him, swallow him whole.

To be so near and still so far was a unique kind of torture that Ratchet enjoyed with every atom of his being.

He would be allowed when it was time, not a single moment sooner or later. Right now he wasn’t in control and had simple, clear objectives to carry out for a being he knew was fair right down to his core.

Ratchet could be patient.

The thin fabric of the spike-and-valve garment wasn’t terribly absorbent. As Drift bucked he could feel the sodden material smear a fresh trail of dampness up his nasal ridge, replacing the stuff that had dried their earlier. Ratchet could feel trails of lubricant running down his chin and cheekplates but he didn’t bother to wipe them away, preferring to maintain contact with Drift. He would be cleaned up later.

 _Hopefully_ by Drift’s glossa.

Ratchet moaned at the thought, using his lipplates to nip gently at an engorged external sensory nub, earning a strangled shout and a flare of ecstasy from the Swordsmech. The silky feel of Drift’s fabric-covered spike rubbed against the centre of Ratchet’s chevron and he thrust his glossa through the slit in the fabric just as Drift ground his valve down on Ratchet’s faceplates.

Drift overloaded with a long, shuddering moan that was completely at odds with how his Field erupted to boil through Ratchet with deep, surging waves of pleasure. The speedster’s valve rippled and closed around Ratchet’s glossa, holding the medic helplessly immobile as lubricant filled his oral cavity and overflowed down his faceplates.

The pretty blue interface-wear did a _little_ better at containing the fluid that erupted from Drift’s spike, but not much. As well as quivering thighs clamped around his help Ratchet could feel sticky warm droplets scatter across his chevron, each one creating delicious sensations that swept through the sensors housed in the chevron and out into his Field where it plucked pleadingly at the heavy blanket of sated contentment that Drift’s was becoming.

Panting harshly to supplement his straining cooling systems, Drift ground his valve array against Ratchet’s faceplates a few more times as the last ripples of his overload rolled through his frame. The motion spread more nanite-laden liquid over Ratchet’s chevron, the temperature difference pulling a desperate noise from the medic’s engine.

Somehow catching the sound even though it was muffled by his saturated valve array, Drift slowly lifted himself off Ratchet’s faceplates. Ratchet’s hands stayed in contact with Drift’s thighs as they shifted, using the contact to ground himself against the desperate craving of his frame. Drift looked down at the wide, desperate optics of the mech below him, a lazy smile curving his mouthplates as he took in the mess he’d made of the CMO’s face.

Little sticky strings of various fluids connected Drift’s fabric-covered equipment to Ratchet’s face until they succumbed to gravity and fell towards the medic’s faceplates. Ratchet’s frame was quivering with tension, his mouthplates open to display the lubricant he’d captured during Drift’s overload.

“Mmmm, good mech.” Drift said, reaching down to caress the silver-splattered chevron. “Now, _swallow_.”

Ratchet’s optics darkened and he held Drift’s gaze as he carefully closed his lipplates and swallowed the lubricant with exaggerated motions. His EM Field writhed against Drift’s as the speeder’s optics lit with satisfaction. The speedster shifted, bringing his helm down to press his own clean nasal ridge against the medic’s sticky one.

“Gooood mech.” Drift crooned, his Field pressing approval and pride into Ratchet. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up.”

A sound that was definitely _not_ a whine crackled from Ratchet’s vocaliser as Drift’s glossa went to work, starting with gentle laps at his lipplates and moving outwards. It wasn’t enough stimulation for Ratchet to reach his own overload and he thrashed beneath the weight of the mech pinning him, keeping his helm obediently still after a warning growl from Drift.

One single swipe of Drift’s warm glossa to the drying smears of reproductive fluid on Ratchet’s chevron was all it took to finally drop the medic into his own much-needed overload. Full-frame bliss with no discernible point of origin surged through him.

The last thing Ratchet was aware of before unconsciousness claimed him was Drift’s delighted laughter.


End file.
